Acceptance
by Kyry
Summary: Simone struggles to accept Annabelle.


You're not a strong person. You know you should be, and there are people who think you are. But to you, they're wrong. How could they be right, when you feel so weak all of the time?

The phone is ringing and you know it's Michael. You refuse to leave the bath to answer his call, and wait until you can hear his voice clear on the machine. "Hey baby it's me, pick up." Your stomach turns. So much has happened in the past few weeks. You've thought about it so often that you can pinpoint the exact moment things started to go wrong: when Annabelle first paused in her arrogant stride to flash you a smirk. You'd felt slightly awkward.

Weeks later and she is poetically explaining an orgasm to you in your class. Being as strong and professional as you'd thought was necessary; you expressed your disapproval. Only to have her eyes wander appreciatively over your body, and her lips form a smirk of knowing. Thusly, your slight awkwardness manifested to the brink of extreme discomfort.

Of course, it took more than her suggestive tendencies for you to reach this stage. For lack of a better phrase, Annabelle gets under your skin. She seems to penetrate through every protective barrier and façade you have ever built, only to touch you exactly where you are most vulnerable. You suspect she knows that you are weak and you dread the consequences of her discovering your history with Amanda, or the existence of Michael.

Speaking of whom, Michael has finally stopped talking to your answering machine and it has switched off; probably as relieved as you are. Michael. You feel sorry for him. A fact you have no problem admitting. To yourself. You consider him another weakness. You humour him. You go out, send him pointless little text messages when you're apart, and you let him use your body. Somehow though, you can't bring yourself to move in with him. Michael is not who or what you want, and your indecision leaves you both suspended in limbo. He wants you too much to say goodbye, and you want a normal, accepted life too much to leave.

The thought of Michael fills you with dread and you let yourself sink further into the water; hoping he would just wash away. Of course, that would mean you would be alone. With school. And Annabelle. You're not sure you could cope.

She'd almost kissed you tonight. You'd almost let her. She had talked innocently about her friends, while you struggled to keep your gaze from wandering over her lips and down her body. Her behaviour has become increasingly physical with you; just a few nights before, her hand was making its way up your thigh. Since then, you haven't been able to shake this - you wouldn't go so far as to say attraction - sexual awareness of her.

You find it hard to think that not even an hour ago, Annabelle's fingers had been tracing their way ever so lightly along your collar bone, while you fought the urge to shiver, and that telltale muscle tightened with excitement. You couldn't help but glance longingly at her lips; imagining how soft they would feel against yours.

You still don't know how you managed to pull away from her. You don't think she quite knew either because she sat back, staring at you with an angry confusion. But you held her gaze; denying her. She left without a word and you knew your resistance had made you strong. You know it had been the right thing to do, but the feeling of hurt and regret still won't be washed away. Dejectedly, you pull the plug of the bath; not leaving until the water drains completely.

Weeks pass and you find yourself constantly drawn to Annabelle. You don't know what it is about the girl that holds you so spellbound. And you don't know why you keep thinking about her body pressed warm and soft against yours. It's so hard to admit even to yourself, that Annabelle Tillman has stolen your heart. The fantasies that seize your mind are inescapably realistic and you are left breathless; your heart beating furiously in its cage of bone.

You tell yourself that these feelings, these fantasies, are wrong. Because of her age, or because of her sex; you haven't decided yet. You'd like to think it was both of these factors, but if you're honest with yourself…

So, you wind up where you always do when you're looking for strength; the chapel. You sit on the hard wooden bench and wait for an epiphany. But it is Father Harris who appears beside you. You speak of Amanda, of when you attended this school as a student. A child. You reminisce about the past. And when Father Harris declares with a cautiously meaningful gaze that he knows everything, your stomach sinks. He knew. Had known all along. And he accepted. Your muscles lose all strength and you try to smile, to make light of the situation, but his implication hits hard. So does his soft smile and the warm grip he has taken on your hand.

Annabelle discovered everything about you that day. About Michael and your parents. About Amanda. You fall asleep in her arms, crying about the loss of your first lover. She understands everything. She gives you what you need and you cry your heartache out into her shoulder. It's not until you wake up the next morning, with Annabelle still wrapped around your side that you begin to feel distressed. Driving home, and she won't stop trying to get you to talk. About your life, Amanda, and about what you could have with her. You can feel your discomfort slowly become aggravation until finally you snap at her. You don't want to talk about it.

She must have recognized the unbridled, raw emotion lacing your words, because she doesn't speak to you again. You don't speak for days, in fact. And you have no idea why, but this makes your skin crawl. It's hard to admit that you miss her. And maybe that's why you're in the bath again; attempting to scrub away those little hurts that plague you. You whisper an overdue goodbye to Amanda's picture and let it float away; drowning in the soapy depths of bathwater.

You doubt the problem of Annabelle – for she _was_ a problem, wasn't she? – could be solved so easily. And so, you ignore her. Passing her in the corridor, she sends you a tiny smile. You let your gaze slide over her as if she were invisible; nearly faltering as her shoulders slump and she falls to lean heavily against the lockers. You walk away.

Your relationship with Michael almost ends that week and you can't bring yourself to feel sad. Maybe it was weak of you: forgoing something, someone, so harmless and reliable. Or maybe for once you were being strong: listening to what you wanted and acting upon it.

If only that same rationale could be applied to your situation with Annabelle. But there is a difference. She is underage and she is a student. No matter how much you wanted her, strength did not reside in breaking the law. You allow yourself only a quiet infatuation – detailing her photographs with charcoal and casting the odd glance in her direction when you know she isn't looking. You are satisfied with this level of distance and have no doubt that it is selfish, because you know she is hurting.

Perhaps the hardest moment – for you and her both, is when she confronts you after class one Friday afternoon. You wear your coldest expression. She wears her heart on her sleave. One final denial and her tears almost fall. Your throat aches with sobs of your own. But she doesn't cry. Her tears harden into acceptance and she walks away.

You allow yourself weakness as a watery hurt stings your eyes and threatens to splash down your cheeks. Mother Emaculata's unexpected presence was the only means of restraint you find, and a part of you hates her for it.

If you had been ignoring Annabelle before; now you completely avoided her. That is, until you hear screams bellowing out from her room, followed by chants of "Fight, fight, fight." Eyes wide and heart pounding, you race up the stairs.

Your lungs threaten to burst from your chest and you have to tear your way through the throng of girls crowding the doorway. You barely have time to register the scene as you lunge over to rip Catherine off Annabelle; pushing her across the room.

Turning, you see Annabelle protectively holding her nose. In a split second you react, telling her to go and see the nurse. An explicit refusal and she is storming out of the room. You feel cruel and you worry. Throwing a heated glare over your shoulder at Catherine, you fling yourself out of the room after Annabelle.

Chasing her down the stairs, you grab at her. She whirls around, slapping your arm away. "Don't touch me." She grits out, and your chest cramps with fear and regret. She's injured and she won't let you care.

"Annabelle…" You murmur. Her cheeks glisten with tears and you try to reach out to her once more, but your hand is hit back with an even greater measure of vehemence. It is all you can do to stand there and watch as she flees down the rest of the stairs. Away from you. And suddenly you are losing the woman you love all over again.

It rained that night and you find yourself neck deep in the tub once more. This time though, you aren't attempting to encourage loss; you are mourning it. You love Annabelle. You don't care if it is weak anymore. Trying to be strong had led absolutely no where. You wrap your arms around yourself and cry.

You manage to muddle along miserably that week, ruefully contacting Michael on occasion. That is, until the night of the Spring Dance. She chases you and you walk away from her. One last attempt to gain control. You would have been successful had she not pulled you back and shattered your resolve. You kiss her. You want to admit to her. You want her to know how she ignites a passion in you that you have been missing for so long. It is so important that she understand. You pour everything you can into that kiss; apologies, love, and above all an unrestrained passion. You can feel Annabelle quivering beneath your touch and as you lay her down on your bed and you realise how long and how desperately she had needed this.

Regrettably though, you don't have a good history with maintaining anything positive in your life, and last night was no exception.

You feel cold in Mother Emaculata's office as you attempt to explain yourself. The slow conversation is torturously strained, yet oddly you harbour no regrets. You feel an iron in your veins and you forget to care what the world will think. Until you turn to face the cold stare of a government authority. Numbness consumes you instead, and you are led away.

It's hard to distinguish what thoughts – if any – pass through your mind during that shameful walk through the school's corridors. You feel such a paradox of rampant terror and undefined strength that your steps falter repeatedly under the force of it all.

It wasn't until you hear a familiar voice call out for you to wait, that your terror subsides. Annabelle. You fling yourself into her arms and only the fierceness of her returned embrace prevents you from bowling her over.

Holding, clutching, and gripping each other so desperately.

"I love you." She whispers urgently into your ear, and you feel that iron strength grip you more severely than before.

"It's going to be alright." You tell her, crying as hard as she is.

Then you are being pulled away and she is shoving something into your hand. Her prayer beads. She isn't going to give up on you, and you have to be strong for her. You will both get through this.

Weeks later, you sit alone on the beach, fiddling with Annabelle's long string of prayer beads that hang around your neck.

You smile as you see a figure racing across the beach on unsteady legs. You stand and move swiftly toward her.

As she draws closer you can hear her deep, almost panicked breaths. You watch as she stumbles, recovering only to launch herself at you.

The force of her weight spins you around, and you are both laughing and crying. You feel overwhelming happiness bubble from you as you clutch her tightly and kiss her. If only you'd known earlier how good it would feel to accept Annabelle.


End file.
